


Flower

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 01 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Take me home,’ she whispers into her ear, as everything comes screaming back at her, everything, everything, everything and that name––Madame Masque––makes her mind ooze with terror. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>A nightmare, grinning in scarred red.</i>
</p><p>[Peggy/Angie]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower

**Author's Note:**

> A very brief take on Season 2. I highly doubt the canon series will be anything like this oneshot, but I really wanted to have a try. What can I say? I very much enjoyed writing this oneshot, and I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.  
> Until next time!

          Bullets rain into the theatre. 

 

          Glass shatters across the audience, and there’s the most almighty _blast_ from the far left. Brick crumbles, and dust suffocates the air. Civilians are crushed, whereas those who survive desperately try to find an escape. One civilian has grown impatient with the heavy crowds. Desperate, he clambers onto one of the chairs in an attempt to jump across. _Bang_. He falls, eyes rolled back, a hole in his skull.

 

          Somebody screams at the horror.

 

          The performers have already fled off stage. An actor rushes for the emergency exit, yelling out when a bullet is shot in his direction. Tears brimming his eyes, he ducks, and slams onto his stomach, hiding his head in his hands. Another actor slips on his own shoelaces, struggles to find his feet––a hand reaches out, squeezes his neck. He chokes, lifted from the floor, face burning from lack of oxygen. 

 

          When his corpse drops, the gun is pointed at the actor huddled onto the floor.

 

          Something heavy _thwacks_ the assailant across the back of the head. Blood explodes across the wall, and the actress exclaims in fright at her own assault. She didn’t mean to kill the man. She didn’t mean to make him _bleed_. Letting go of the bat, the actress rushes forwards and collapses to her knees before the actor who’s still face down on the floor. She impatiently shakes his arm.

 

          ‘Mister, you gotta move!’

 

          He peers at her, but the actress has no intention of waiting. The moment she’s on her feet and running for the emergency exit, he springs into action, following after her. She pushes the door open, and she’s barely made it through when the butt of a gun is whammed into her. She collapses. 

 

          The actor gapes, ‘Angie!’ But he’s helpless as a shadowy figure appears and knocks him out cold. He falls beside her limp body.

 

          The shadowy figure steps into the theatre, and loads his gun. He sees his comrade dead on the floor, and, without hesitance, aims his gun at the actor. He fires. The impact causes the actor's body to jolt. This, unfortunately, stirs the young actress. He doesn’t shoot her. Instead, he allows her to open her eyes, and witness the nightmare before she, too, joins her friend in whatever dark paradise awaits.

 

          Angie is significantly younger than the other performers, and she has the sweetest face this man has witnessed. An easy target. But he wants to see her fear, wants to see her scream before he finishes her off. She won’t look so pretty when there’s a bullet nestled between her eyes. 

 

          Scrambling to her hands and knees, Angie groans, blood trickling from where the man hit her. That’s when she sees the body.

 

          As he expects, the girl screams out, desperately shuffling as far back from the corpse as she can. Then she’s aware of his presence, and looks up at him, wide eyed and full of dread. He thinks, _poor thing_. She’s only an actress. Just some girl who wanted to take her chances. A little lady from Los Angeles, fulfilling her role as Mary in the most anticipated play of the decade, _The Cave_. 

 

          He grins at her.

 

          ‘ _O world of strange beliefs innumerable, I cannot die … I cannot die. Death will not have me_.’

 

          He quotes her character effortlessly, eyes disturbingly adoring, 

 

          ‘Ain’t that right, my sweetest love?’

 

          Angie shudders. 

 

          Her eyes dart to the right. The bat is only a few inches away. She can reach it, but she has to be fast––she has to be fast. 

 

          And she moves.

 

          A bullet grazes past her ear. Angie lunges for the bat, her knees knocking into the wooden floorboard. The man stomps over, lowers the gun, pulls the trigger––

 

          When Angie hears the _crack_ of his wrist breaking, she’s certain she’ll be sick. He wails, clutching his broken wrist, the gun sliding across the floor. Angie’s mind has gone blank; she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but all that registers is the gun. _The gun_. That thing which will kill her. He will kill her with that thing. 

 

          The gun.

 

_Get the gun, girl_.

 

          Her shoes slip, and she loses one in her frenzy. Angie’s heart is about to burst, she can feel her pulse digging into her head. The gun reaches her fingertips, and her hands shake wildly as she points the gun at the man, shoulders clenched, jaw tight, eyes large with her terror and uncertainly at what she intends to do.

 

          She does nothing. Instead, Angie holds the gun towards him. He holds up his only working hand, and backs up against the wall, pleading with her not to shoot. But he doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know that Angie has never killed in her life, she will never kill in her life, and the blood on her hands _corrodes_ her flesh. Suddenly, she is frightening. Absolutely terrifying, an angel turned gargoyle, and he stares at her as if she were something evil.

 

          Blood drips off her chin, stained in her hair.

 

_Drip._

 

_Drip._

 

_Drip._

 

          The back door barges open.

 

          ‘Drop the gun! _Drop the gun_!’

 

          SSR agents burst in, weaponry raised. _At her_. Angie swallows, and immediately lets go of the gun, before kicking it towards the first agent. She raises her hands in her surrender, eyes desperate to announce her innocence. _I am not a bad person. I didn’t shoot. I swear. I didn’t shoot. It was self defence. Don’t arrest me._ None of these thoughts are voiced. 

 

          The girl is in shock.

 

          ‘Down on the floor!’

 

          This is, too, directed at Angie.

 

          ‘You hear me? On the floor!’ The agent comes over, grabs her by the shoulder.

 

          ‘ _Get your hands_ ** _off_** _her_!’

 

          Every single agent, including Angie and the assailant, turn towards the voice. A woman has stepped inside, coated in what looks like soot; dry blood splattered across her uniform, her hair a bit of a mess. At once the agent releases Angie. The woman is livid. Clearly something has gone disarray, and now to witness her best friend being _handled_ by an agent? 

 

          It’s most intolerable!

 

          Peggy barges past him, and even elbows him roughly out of the way. As soon as she’s able to hold Angie’s arm, her expression softens so dramatically, Angie forgets how to breathe. Now it all sinks in. Everything. From the storm of bullets, the explosion, more bullets, _so many guns, so many horrible men, big hands, horrible eyes_ ––

 

          ‘Darling, are you quite all right?’ 

 

          ‘What’s goin’ on?’

 

          ‘I wish I was privy to such information, myself.’ Peggy turns to the agents, and her voice returns to its heavy, frightening tone. ‘What are you all doing standing around like apes? Get this _bastard_ behind bars, this instant! I want him out of my _sight_.’ She glares at the man, and he shrinks back.

 

          Awed at her fury, Angie doesn’t know if she feels any safer. Her hand grabs at Peggy’s jacket, pulling at the fabric. Once the man is taken away, Angie holds onto Peggy tighter. Peggy doesn’t let Angie go. Her arm remains firm around the actress’s waist, her other hand preoccupied with her handgun. Angie swallows, burying half her face into Peggy’s jacket. She can’t move, can’t speak; she just needs Peggy to stay.

 

          One agent talks to Peggy briefly.

 

          ‘She’s gone.’

 

          ‘I know,’ Peggy stiffens at her own words. ‘She outran me. I nearly had her, but she ordered her men onto me, and I was temporarily hindered.’ Angie hasn’t the foggiest idea what Peggy is talking about, but remains quiet. ‘Madame Masque has not seen the last of me. _That_ I can assure you of.’

 

          He nods. ‘I must ask, though… why would she attack a theatre?’

 

          ‘As of now, I know little of her intentions. Shut this place down immediately. Civilians aren’t allowed within a fifty-mile radius, _at least_ , of the theatre. I doubt Madame Masque is still here, but I’d rather be safe than sorry, agent.’

 

          ‘I understand.’ He glances at Angie and smiles warmly. ‘Agent Carter, would you like me to send Miss Martinelli home?’

 

          ‘Thank you. You’re very kind, but _I_ shall escort Miss Martinelli. She is a witness to the crime. There are questions I must ask her.’

 

          ‘Shouldn’t you do that at HQ?’

 

          ‘No. I’d rather not.’ Peggy doesn’t explain why. The agent nods slowly, then shrugs, before leaving backstage. 

 

          Peggy’s grip on Angie doesn’t loosen. She turns her head to look at her properly. This is the first time Peggy has been able to see if Angie has been wounded. Of course she notices the gash at Angie’s temple, the blood now dry. Angie freezes when Peggy gently runs her fingers near the wound, expression now lost of its ferocity. She is, now, the Peggy Angie knows, and when Peggy looks at her, her eyes soft and warm, Angie wants to cry.

 

          It was all so fast. From the moment she entered the stage, to the second when bullets shattered through the windows, and it was a fire of death. Angie has _never_ seen anything like it, and she can’t _stop shaking_. The way Peggy watches her, the way Peggy _stepped into the room_ , her voice––Christ, her _voice_ was so scary. 

 

          So this is what Peggy does.

 

          This is who Peggy is. An agent. A spy.

 

          ( _Danger_.)

 

          Angie retreats from her arms. Peggy raises her brows. ‘Sweetheart, your face. Oh, look what he’s done to you.’

 

          ‘I’m okay, English.’

 

          She doesn’t look or sound okay. Angie’s voice trembles. Wrapping her arms around her body, Angie tries to calm down. Don’t think. Just breathe. Breathe, breathe––Peggy is here and it’s going to be all right. Angie doesn’t realise she’s closed her eyes in her meditation, until Peggy’s hands are at her shoulders, and she jumps in fright.

 

          Instantly Peggy is aware of Angie’s fragility. 

 

          The wound. She can’t stop looking at Angie's wound. 

 

          And, Angie can’t stop looking at Peggy’s rugged _face_ ; she _looks_ like danger. Looks like the soldier she is. This isn’t the girl she served at the diner, and how she wishes she had stayed in Brooklyn. Oh, she should have stayed in Brooklyn! Not gone after the audition in LA _just because Peggy was going to LA as well._ Why did she follow her around, like a lost puppy?

 

          ‘Let me take you home.’

 

          And yet, Peggy expresses everything _but_ danger.

 

          Her work––her life–-may involve walking into crime scenes every day, but she is _not_ the crime. She is _not_ the gun she carries around with her. _She is not that man who tried to kill Angie in cold blood, with that smile. That smile._

 

          Peggy is open before her. The gun dangles limply from her hand, unused, _unwanted_. Her face is smeared in somebody else’s blood, stained from the crumble of brick; Peggy has endured the consequences of tonight externally. Angie has endured the consequences of tonight in the most internal way possible. It takes her body a while to react, to actually _process_ what she has been through, what has happened in so few minutes.

 

_I could’ve died._

 

          And that would have been it. If the SSR agents didn’t arrive, if Angie didn’t pick up the bat, if Angie _hadn’t moved_ , she would have been shot. She would have been killed. She would have died on stage, doing the one thing she loved most.

 

          The bullet cold and cruel in her skin.

 

          Angie falls into Peggy’s arms, and Peggy fiercely holds her, so tight their lungs are squeezed and their oxygen is deprived. 

 

          ‘Take me home,’ she whispers into her ear, as everything comes screaming back at her, everything, everything, everything and that name––Madame Masque––makes her mind ooze with terror. 

 

          A nightmare, grinning in scarred red.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          They reach Angie’s apartment, the moon beaming down on them, as if the sin of this evening has been replenished and forgotten. Angie is still shaking when they enter through the door, when Peggy’s voice––soft and unmistakable––eases Angie into a state of calm. _It’s okay. It’s okay. My darling, everything will be okay. Listen to me, and only listen to me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay_.

 

          So, she listens to Peggy’s voice. Listens to Peggy’s voice when tears sting her eyes, when she’s no longer scared, but now disturbed and upset from the events. She can’t stop imagining the man with the bullet in his head––‘His name was Jacob; he told me all 'bout Broadway. Said I had a chance. He was a nice guy, Pegs.’––she can’t stop hearing the blaze of bullets, the sounds they made when they hit _solid_. 

 

          Angie cries quietly when Peggy kisses the corner of her lips.

 

          ‘My darling, I’m so sorry.’

 

          She says this as if it is her fault. It was  _her_ fault Angie’s performance was interrupted. It was _her_ fault Madame Masque and her Mafia gang targeted the theatre. It was _her_ fault that Angie can’t stop trembling, can’t stop holding onto her for dear life, as if their separation may result in her death. Angie _needs_ her. And Peggy can never handle being _needed_ , for she is not the type of woman who is _needed_.

 

          ‘You’re bleeding.’ Fingertips lightly touch Angie’s stained, bloody hair. Her rough temple, where the butt of the gun was rammed into her. ‘Oh, my poor girl.’ Peggy is mortified, and her expression is too much for Angie to bear. 

 

          Her play has been ruined, and she was so excited. Peggy was going to see her tomorrow night, their second performance. Peggy was going to see her act for the first time, see how brilliant she is, and then Peggy will tell her how amazing she was, how she shone out from the rest. _Peggy was going to see her play._  

 

          It’s all _destroyed_.

 

          Cupping Angie’s face between her hands, Peggy weighs in the fact she could have lost this girl. She could have lost her. And then her fears, those _images_ which keep her up at night, would have become a reality. Her dear, sweet, lovely Angie who only wants to become an actress. This innocent girl. Too good for the horrors Peggy thrusts at her––such a victimless, bright, energetic little lady.

 

          All of that to ruin.

 

          They cling to each other in the dark. Angie squeezes her eyes shut, desperate to block out the memories of tonight, but they keep swarming in. But she’s a strong girl. She is, she is, she is––she can take this, she can––

 

          ‘I can’t––Peggy, I––’

 

          ‘Shh, shh,’ Peggy kisses her forehead, her cheek, ‘I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe, here, with me. I won’t let anyone touch you.’

 

          Hot tears run down Angie’s cheeks. Peggy wipes a few with her thumbs, and kisses her forehead again. 

 

          ‘My sweet girl.’ Her hands find the zip to her dress. ‘Let me get you out of this constricting costume.’

 

          Angie doesn’t really acknowledge her lack of wear when Peggy delicately pulls the zip down. She peels away the dress from Angie’s small shoulders, and allows it to flutter down and meet the floor. The girl is left in her petticoat, white, plain, unblemished; a pure reflection of herself. 

 

          Peggy embraces her. Angie feels freer, able to move, to _breathe_. The costume has squeezed her body, plagued her of the evening, and now that it’s slipped from her flesh, away, Angie can _move_ , can _think_ , can _feel_.

 

          The moment she processes Peggy’s strong arms around her, Angie responds in kind, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, her body pressed up against hers. Peggy smells of blood, the chilling metal of the gun. Angie’s hand massages through Peggy’s hair, her breath tickling her cheek as she whispers so quietly, ‘Please, tell me you don’t do this everyday.’

 

          ‘I do this everyday to protect those that I love.’ Peggy tightens her embrace. ‘I have no choice. Darling, please understand.’

 

          Angie does. She understands.

 

          What she can’t quite handle is the fact this heroic work of Peggy’s may eventually snatch her away.

 

          (That she'll slip between Angie’s fingers.)

 

          They embrace and wallow in their words. Angie’s hand continues to run through Peggy’s hair, conscious of Peggy’s own hand gently grazing up and down her back, petticoat smooth and soft beneath her touch. They soothe one another, remedy one another from their disturbed state, and melt into each other in unison–– _breathe_.

 

          Afterwards, they detach, only briefly, yet hands still clasped. 

 

          Draped in her white petticoat, Angie finds her balance, and only looks at Peggy’s marked face once. She can’t stand the blood, the dirt. Angie needs to rid of it. She guides Peggy to the bathroom, rinses a warm flannel, has Peggy sit on the edge of the bathtub, and, legs shaking, hands trembling, she wipes away the dementia of her pretty face. The flannel grazes past her lips, where their eyes meet, and Angie’s locked in her gaze.

 

          She cleanses Peggy from the aftermath. 

 

          Angie nudges closer, between Peggy’s legs as she carefully, _so carefully_ , wipes her clean. The blood disappears under her touch, and, soon, Peggy is normal again. Pale face, slightly red cheeks, eyes tired and looking at her as if she is the centre of everything Peggy lives for. Peggy’s arms come around her waist, and the flannel drops into the bathtub. Angie sighs, resting her forehead onto Peggy’s. She wonders, if she knew––if she knew about Peggy’s work, who she is, what she does––would she have stayed?

 

          The answer is obvious.

 

          ‘Will you find her?’ She doesn’t speak Madame Masque’s name; it frightens her, causes her teeth to chatter.

 

          Peggy’s hands stroke down her back. ‘Soon. I promise. I’ll find her.’

 

          ‘And d’you promise to watch me perform again?’

 

          ‘I do. Next time, I’ll make sure your plays are no longer interrupted.’ Peggy brushes the back of her hand across Angie’s cheek, causing Angie's eyes to flutter closed. Peggy exhales slowly. ‘I’m sorry, darling. If I ever knew…’

 

          ‘Stay with me.’

 

          ‘I’m staying.’

 

          Angie holds Peggy’s hand at her cheek. ‘I was so scared, Pegs. Really scared––I can’t stop thinkin’ 'bout––’ Her voice catches. Angie starts crying again. ‘––can’t stop thinkin’ 'bout it all. I’m so _scared_.’

 

          ‘Darling.’ Peggy can’t stand seeing her this way. She can’t stand it. She holds onto Angie harder, whispering, whispering, ‘My darling, please. Please don’t be scared. I’ll never let anything happen to you. You have my word.’

 

          She listens to her. Peggy’s touch sends hot sparks through Angie’s body, latching onto her. Her ears catch every word, fall into Peggy’s assurances; her words. Her voice. She listens to her and believes her, and, yet, still clings onto Peggy so _fiercely_. ‘But…’ Angie’s energy lacks, and she comes so close, too close for Peggy’s heart to ease. ‘… what about you?’

 

          ‘Don’t worry about me.’

 

          It’s an impossibility. Angie will worry, will always worry. 

 

          As she always has.

 

          Peggy watches her, looks up at her, her hand still held between Angie’s.

 

          ‘Kiss me.’

 

          Neither really react. Angie hears her, and then she leans forwards and presses their lips together. It barely lasts, but Angie’s heart soars, her mind _breaks_ , and suddenly all the tiny, frazzled pieces are put together and _it is okay_. Angie gasps against her lips from the impact. She does and doesn’t think. She kisses Peggy again, hard, and they breathe into each other, inhale each other, lean on each other.

 

          They kiss, kiss and kiss, soft and tender.

 

          Peggy can smell Angie’s breath, can feel its heat; Angie stands between her legs, hands raking through Peggy’s hair as they kiss again. Her lips move against Peggy’s when she speaks, her voice stuttering blind sentences, ‘I want you to stay.’ For once. Stay. Stay after your war, stay after your trauma; stay with me and let us _be_. 

 

          (It is what she has wanted for months.) _  
_

 

          Her need is simple. Peggy has no inclination of denying her. She’s kissed and she kisses. They embrace, arms and hands seizing, pulling, grabbing; lips sore, jaws aching, eyes shut, shuddering and shuddering and pushing into each other. Angie nips at Peggy’s lower lip sweetly, enduring a ripple of something hot and pleasant when Peggy groans lightly at her demand. 

 

          She feels Peggy’s palms on her petticoat, then at the hem, and then Angie breaks from her lips to lift her arms, the petticoat blinding her view temporary. 

 

          Wanting to be held, wanting to be held in whatever way possible, to forget, to forget about tonight, to forget about what Peggy is, what she does, Angie raises Peggy’s hand to her breast. Peggy cups her breast and squeezes affectionately. Angie rocks into her, a moan breaking from her lips. She consents to Peggy’s affection, kisses her roughly, her tongue parting Peggy’s lips and their kisses are whole, deep and reckless.

 

          She can still hear the bullets.

 

          Angie grabs Peggy’s shirt, and it takes all of her grace to not shred it apart in her desire. The buttons pop open, and Peggy’s flesh is soft and warm beneath her shaking palms. Peggy nudges Angie back, and she stands from the bathtub. Angie rises to her tiptoes, arms wrapping around the back of her neck, and they kiss passionately, lost and raptured. 

 

          ‘Touch me. _Please_.’

 

          A hiss escapes her when Peggy’s arms balance Angie, and she kisses her breast, sucking gently on her nipple, before leaving a cascade of kisses between her breasts. Angie arches her back, a hand idly combing through Peggy’s hair as she continues to kiss her body. 

 

          She’s small, trembling and delicate, and Peggy is riddled with madness in her love for this sweet girl. She wants her to know, needs her to know.

 

          The air between them lightens. Their haunted evening evaporates with each kiss, and Angie urges her. She’s busy stroking Peggy’s sides, her tummy, allowing a hand to find a sore breast. Peggy stiffens, sensitive to Angie’s touch, but encourages her all the same. 

 

          They kiss each other’s lips, faces, cheeks, necks, collarbones. Angie takes Peggy’s hand, her lips like feathers when she kisses her fingertips. One at a time, before kissing Peggy’s palm, rough and raw from the weaponry she carries all day.

 

          Both tumble to the floor. Peggy is in a daze, drunk and breathless, her lungs aching and her body shivering. Angie pulls her close, her hand finding hers. She clenches onto her tightly, so tightly she could break her bones. They lock their gaze, lips parted, cold and finding each other in the dark. 

 

          All the blood, their grim reminders––stripped.

 

          It terrifies Peggy, shocks her, that only the curve of Angie's breast protects her beating heart. 

 

          ( _S_ _o fragile beneath her._ )

 

          ‘I won’t let them take you from me.’

 

          Peggy’s voice is muffled, lips pressed to Angie’s cheek as she falls into her. Angie doesn’t know what she means, but holds her still, eyes squeezed shut, wrapped in her presence, her love. 

 

          They kiss. 

 

          Angie finds Peggy’s hands, and her eyes open when she guides Peggy to her warmth. Biting down hard on her lower lip, Angie stretches back, moaning at the sensation of Peggy slowly, gradually, easing into her.

 

          They find each other, wrap in each other, tangled and weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Madame Masque is like water.

 

          Every time Peggy has her, Madame Masque sends a crash of waves in her direction; a waterfall. Powerful and hungry for maddening rage, and then gone, merging with society and its tame atrocity. Madame Masque is as untamed as the sea, as insane as any beast Peggy has encountered and when the week is up, she is isolated in a mountain of evidence, reports and documents––all failing to pinpoint the location of this  woman.

 

          The theatre is only populated with agents. Never seen again by the civil eye.

 

          Newspapers explode with rumours of The Maggia. An infamous, and extremely competent Mafia Peggy has feared may pop up sooner or later. Its ringleader, Madame Masque, has undoubtedly made them the headline of all newspapers for a reason. She wants the idiocy of society to sway in fear, to tremble in her wake, to drop their arms and _worship_ her. Because that is her greed, her hunger, her passion.

 

          She wants victory.

 

          And Margaret Carter is the only _obstacle_ in her way.

 

          Eventually, they collide into each other. A blur; Peggy only sees her once before her legs are shattered beneath her and she’s thrown into the wall. 

 

          ‘Send your lady love my kisses, Agent Carter.’

 

          It’s the smile which Peggy remembers when she awakes, an agent hovering over her.

 

          That smile _glares_ with promise. Wrecked and _taunted_.

 

          Your lady love.

 

          (Your Angie.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          ‘Her face is masked with scars,’ Peggy whispers to Angie one night, huddled close to her beneath the sheets. ‘She is a traumatised woman.’

 

          It is criminal of Peggy to discuss her investigation with a civilian.

 

          However, Angie has no intention of sharing such secrets. She strokes Peggy’s face, her hair, and then her hand glides across Peggy’s shoulder. Peggy arrived back at her apartment with a bruised face, broken nose, and lips bleeding. Angie had washed away the blood, touched her bruises, kissed her bleeding lips. 

 

          Lay with her when Peggy needed to rest.

 

          ‘I fear she may find you.’

 

          ‘Pegs.’ Angie smiles crookedly. ‘Y’know I can hold my own.’

 

          There it is: that confidence, that brilliance, that assurance in herself. Angie _can_ hold her own, but against Madame Masque? If Peggy is struggling to stay alive just by _facing_ the woman, then God knows how long her sweet Angie will last. Peggy kisses her roughly on the mouth, catching Angie by surprise.

 

          ‘I have you,’ Angie whispers into her mouth, ‘And you have me.’

 

          And that’s all they require to survive.

 

          Each other.

 

          That’s how it’s always been.

 

          Peggy's fingers dig into Angie’s waist when she captures her lips again. They kiss and caress each other, and Angie helps Peggy ease into the now, the present–– _her_. Lets Peggy forget about the job, lets her love, lets her breathe, lets her heart beat for Angie. Let it all _be_. Let it wait until sunrise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          And when the mission is final, when Madame Masque is found and gone, when Peggy reclaims her medal, and when she dons her invisible cape one last time, she leaves Los Angeles and returns to Brooklyn.

 

          She does this in a heartbeat.

 

          Angie’s hand in her own, the young actress one step ahead. 

 

          A kiss on her lips.

 

          Their promise secured.

 

 


End file.
